


The Place Where Shadows Loom

by Consort of the Moribund (Inksinger), Inksinger



Series: Night Will Bring No Dawn [6]
Category: Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Child Death, Don't Let Me Write Things, Horror, I'm sorry this got sadder than it was supposed to, Interlude, Post-Apocalypse, Suicide, and I accidentally killed off a gay couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inksinger/pseuds/Consort%20of%20the%20Moribund, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inksinger/pseuds/Inksinger
Summary: Interlude, set concurrently with Night Will Bring No Dawn.Kael'thas and his followers venture through the ruins of Quel'Thalas on foot to see the devastation for themselves.
Series: Night Will Bring No Dawn [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/529477
Kudos: 5





	The Place Where Shadows Loom

The vast majority of those high elves who had been in Dalaran had been sent home to Silvermoon City by way of portal, so that they might more swiftly reconnect with their brethren and bring aid and supplies to the survivors. But Kael'thas Sunstrider, now king in all but title, had not traveled thusly for himself. Though all his heart and soul cried out to be amongst his people _now,_ while they needed him most desperately, he had chosen instead to port only so far as the Sanctum of the Sun, near the southernmost border of his kingdom. From there he meant to ride through what remained of Quel'Thalas, followed by his Phoenix Guard and the small knot of magi and soldiers who would not leave their prince’s side even when at last he had commanded it of them.

It had been a toothless command, even before it had been met with such open defiance. He had not had the heart to punish any of them for it, not when he could see it came from a place of loyalty. The hard eyes and hollow determination in the faces of his most adamant followers had quelled the desperation that had driven him to order them away more certainly than water cast upon an open flame, and for a time he had found comfort in their obdurance.

There was no such comfort now.

Now, as he scanned the barren wastes that were all that still remained of his once vibrant homeland, Kael'thas felt only a deep, biting agony within himself. Emergence shifted uneasily beneath him; her white plumage fairly stood on end as she, too, surveyed the decimation that surrounded them with a series of long, unhappy croons.

Quel'Thalas - proud, ancient, prosperous Quel'Thalas, the land whereon his father's fathers had founded and raised their mighty kingdom - lay now in silent, sullied ruin.

Whole swaths of forest had been burned and torn down; entire cities had been reduced to broken, mage-scorched rubble. Blood - and other fluids less readily identified - painted nearly every road and square in a grisly, ever-darkening array of red and brown. Even the skies above seemed dark and grim, as though the very heavens themselves lay in mourning for what had come to pass.

The destruction lay unending, unbroken. What few patches of vegetation remained yet untouched by war or by unholy blight were beset on all sides by a sea of rot and ruin, the ashen blackness overtaking all that once was green and gold and leaving slime and soot behind. Even the very birds and beasts were now besieged, with the living forced at nearly every turn to flee or fight against their tormented, undead brethren. More than once, the screams of songbirds pierced the air around them; more than once, the party was forced to stop and deal with a feral, shambling pack of rotting lynxes.

They had learned the hard way not to underestimate the walking dead who had been beasts in life. Only three nights in, one of their number had been lost to an attack by a skeletal dragonhawk in the night. The creature had torn the woman's face to pieces and was burrowing _through_ her neck by the time others had come to her aid, and had blinded another man before it was finally obliterated.

These, however, at least were only animals in the end. Only beasts, recognizable but not beloved as friends and family. The same could not be said for those risen walkers who had once been elves.

The first attack had been the worst on all accounts: Every burned and broken body that had risen up to assault Kael'thas’ party had been beloved by one or more of his followers, and three more of his elves had fallen when their grief overcame them in the heat of battle. These dead ones were fresh, and all still bore their faces and accouterments so that there could be no mistaking who the Scourge had turned.

There had been more attacks, and Kael'thas had led ambushes against other knots of undead who had been less hostile and unaware or uninterested in his party’s passing - but that first battle, and the screams and wailing of his people amidst the flashing of blades and mage-fire, haunted Kael'thas the most vividly. He had not slept for several days afterwards, and even now did not allow himself more than a moment's rest, lest true, deep sleep claim him and drag him back down into the hell of his own nightmares.

Yet even still, surrounded though they were by such unceasing devastation and in such constant peril as they found themselves - even still, Kael'thas and his followers searched wherever they might, desperate to find any survivors they could and grimly salvaging whatever supplies and resources had been left behind.

The first broken body they had found had been a boy barely out of his infancy. He had been found in a heap beneath the remnants of a large wooden table, still clutching a small toy bear to his chest. His condition suggested his death had come days before the party found him; his one remaining eye had never shut, and stared blankly ahead as they pulled him from his hiding place and carefully bore him to an open patch of ground beneath the cloudy skies.

Kael'thas had been the one to burn the body - this, and all the others who came after, dead and risen and newly-slain alike. They would come back again if not incinerated; all among his party knew this. Others were even willing to carry out the grisly task if he should ask it of them, even if it meant destroying the remnants of those they knew and loved. It was better than having to face and fight and kill those loved ones once again.

But Kael'thas would allow no other to shoulder the burden of this final act of service. This task he took, and this task he kept, even when others offered - nay, _begged_ \- to take his place. He knew the pain such an act had brought him. He knew there would never be a day when he forgot the horror of what his magic brought about upon bodies that were still _elvish,_ even if decayed and broken at the end. He would allow no other soul among his followers to subject themselves to the same bone-deep scarring that he called upon himself.

And he would not allow himself to hide behind another, and command that _they_ carry out what was his burden by rights. He would not allow himself to look away from the pyres, nor the ruined cities, nor the dead and dying forests. He no longer had the luxury of running from his duty to the people who remained.

Talonsteps approached him from behind; Kael'thas kept Emergence firmly in hand and did not turn away from the bleak tableau of blackened trees and broken stones. He had no reason to suspect any of his followers might mean him harm - and after two weeks of endless death and chaos, he found he no longer feared the living as a rule, not even by the little fraction he had known before.

“The others grow restless,” Valanar reported. “They are eager to reach the capital.”

“We travel as swiftly as might be managed,” Kael'thas answered. His breath came out as a great cloud of steam in the cold morning air, such as he had only seen previously in those lands not touched by the Sunwell’s influence. “We cannot afford to lose anyone else to exhaustion or ambush. None of us can march without rest.”

He heard Valanar shift uncomfortably at that, and closed his eyes to steel himself for what came next.

“With all respect, Your Highness - it could take weeks still to reach Silvermoon City.” Valanar’s voice was hesitant, but rang with his own conviction as he added, “You told us all that you wished to ride through the kingdom so that you could see the damages for yourself, and we understood - but have you not seen enough? We have found only a little in the way of resources, and there are no survivors—”

“There _must be,_ ” Kael'thas said, perhaps more forcefully than was warranted. His hands tightened down about Emergence’s reigns until pain began to lash at his palms.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence after that, heavy with the weight of a thousand things neither man dared to say aloud.

“…Even… even if there are,” Valanar finally ventured. “Even… if, by some miracle, someone _has_ survived alone out here…”

“Do not finish that sentence, _Marquise._ ” The words came out like the cracking of a whip, and Kael'thas scarcely recognized his own voice.

“We cannot afford to lose more fighters for the sake of so slim a possibility,” Valanar said anyway, very nearly cutting across Kael'thas to do so.

Kael'thas’ vision went white with rage.

“I will not abandon my people!” he spat, hauling Emergence about so that he might at last face down his Marquise. “If even _one_ soul yet lives in this wasteland, I will _find them_ and see them safely home, and damned all be the consequences!”

To his credit, Valanar did not so much as flinch in the face of his prince's ire, though that did little to assuage Kael'thas at the moment.

“We _cannot_ scour the whole of these lands,” Valanar insisted urgently. “ _Our people_ need us _now,_ my lord.”

“Then port yourselves ahead to the capital,” Kael'thas snapped, “and leave me to my work.”

“You know we will not,” Valanar said. “We have not come this far only to abandon you at the midway.”

Kael'thas snarled and pulled Emergence about again to ride several paces off. He knew Valanar spoke truly - both in his assessment of the situation at hand, and in his certainty that the others would stay even in spite of their growing agitation. He knew it flew in the face of all logic to continue this hopeless ride, for he _had_ seen enough, surely, and he doubted there could be any worse atrocity awaiting him out in these broken lands.

Knowing did not ease the sorrow still gnawing at his heart - do nothing to dull the pain of its broken, jagged teeth as they met anew in his flesh with each new wave of loss and horror. He could not remember now what it had once been like, to have lived without this great shadow looming ever over him. He doubted he would ever know freedom from it again, even if his life should span even twice so long as had—

“Your Highness!”

That cry was not Valanar’s - the voice was too far from where Valanar and his hawkstrider stood, and too high and young besides, especially compared to Valanar’s rich, resonant tenor.

Both men turned their hawks about to see one of the younger magi, Netali, running towards them. The woman's auburn hair was in disarray, her robes torn about the hem; horror twisted her face until she was nearly unrecognizable as the same mage who only just the day before had stepped fearlessly between Kael'thas and the broken blade of a hostile, undead ranger.

“Our scouts have returned from the northwest,” Netali reported, half-skidding to a halt amidst the slimy carpet of dead, rotting foliage that blanketed the ground wherever there had not once been cobblestones or buildings.

“And?” Kael'thas demanded, struggling to keep his voice even in spite of the sudden, growing dread that Netali’s state aroused in him. “What have they found?”

“A scar,” Netali said, and there was something nearly feral in the terror that shook her voice as she added, “a great, black scar upon the land itself, brimming with more of the undead than we've encountered thus far. The scouts only barely escaped with their lives.”

Kael'thas felt Valanar's eyes on him, but did not turn to look at the other man. He feared what he might see if he should meet the other's eyes; the too-bright light of Netali's gaze was hideous enough.

“Where are the scouts now?” Kael'thas asked. “I would speak with them, and hear their report for myself.”

“They're taking rest, and water,” Netali reported. “I can take you to them.”

“Lead on, Netali,” Kael'thas commanded, and he and Valanar urged their mounts forward to follow the young mage back to the relative light and warmth of their camp.

The scouts had taken up a pair of seats beside the large fire at the center of the camp, and huddled together beneath a blanket as though they were chilled to the bone. The elder of the two, Mal’areth, stared listlessly ahead into the flames; the younger, named Kelarin, nibbled absently at a hunk of dry bread, though he too stared into the fire as though it might at any moment leap from its pit to snap at him.

A small crowd had already begun to gather around them when Kael'thas arrived; though they kept enough distance to let the scouts breathe and recuperate, the eyes of the camp were hard on the pair, and Kael'thas could see impatience in the lines of even his most even-tempered followers as he dismounted and handed Emergence off to Netali.

Mal’areth heard his approach first, and turned slowly about to face him, though he still moved and looked as though he might be concussed. Kelarin was even slower to respond, and only turned part of the way to glance once at Kael'thas before digging back into his bread, looking like nothing so much as a beaten dog.

“Netali tells me you uncovered a _scar,_ ” Kael'thas said, keeping his voice low but otherwise refusing to soften himself even for these two who were so clearly caught fast in their own horror. One moment of weakness, and all of his remaining strength would crumble here before them.

“She tells you truly.” Mal'areth’s voice, usually soft and clear and nearly musical to listen to, now registered at a hoarse whisper, and the sound was like the passage of wind through an abandoned tomb. “We both saw - a great swath of blackness and decay, the soil dry and broken and… _bruised,_ it seemed, like living flesh. It runs as far as one can see in either direction, south to north - perhaps a league across in width, we couldn't see the far side of it.”

“How can you be sure there _is_ a far side?” Valanar asked. His own voice was brittle, and Kael'thas wondered if there was any answer Mal'areth could offer that would land softly for the Marquise.

“There _must be,_ ” Mal'areth said, and although his eyes never left Kael'thas some life returned to his face as he added, “Living birds flew overhead from the west. We could hear a lynx roaring off that direction, as well. There _must_ be a western limit to the scar.”

“Perhaps there are simply living creatures still wandering within this ‘scar’,” Valanar suggested.

Kelarin stirred at that, looking up sharply as though he had only now realized where he was.

“Nothing walks there and stays alive,” the younger scout hissed. “ _Nothing._ The land there isn't just dead, it's _actively draining the life around it._ Everything living that _touches_ the soil there sickens and withers and _dies._ People, animals, plants, the living earth at its edges - all of them die, some swiftly, some not. _All of them,_ ” he spat, as though someone might speak up in argument.

Muttering broke out through the camp. More than a few faces began to register suspicion as Kelarin’s words sank in, and with a sickening jolt Kael'thas began to realize why.

“Does this withering only occur within the scar?” he asked, turning to Mal'areth in hopes that the older man might offer a calmer response than his companion.

“We cannot say,” Mal'areth answered slowly. “We did not see any creature leave the boundaries of the scar before its poison or the undead took them - only the Scourge ventured out onto the living earth beyond.”

“Creatures, you said,” Valanar said. “Do you mean to say even the larger beasts were felled in moments?”

“No,” Kelarin said. “Smaller. Rats and snakes and insects - butterflies whose wings disintegrated as they landed and lizards that thrashed about with tiny, shrill screams as their skin rotted away from their bones. Nothing larger, nothing that the Scourge did not fall upon and tear to pieces.”

“You are certain they were Scourge, and not more of the fallen?” Kael'thas asked, raising his voice over another swell of unsettled muttering.

“They wore Scourge armor, Highness,” Mal'areth said, “and bore tabards and banners with a device we haven't seen before: Skulls and broken weapons crossed behind a jagged greatsword, and all of them but the greatsword frozen over with a thick layer of ice, ringed in a deep blue aura and set on a black field.”

“Some still had flesh about them,” Kelarin put in. “Others spoke. They were human, once, all of them. They could not have been ours.”

“There were machines, as well,” Mal'areth continued. Kael'thas did not miss the slight shifting of the blanket as he slung one arm around Kelarin's shoulders. “Wretched things - great ploughs with jagged metal teeth and mobile arms tipped with scythes. They were littered with more skulls and coated in gore. No elf could have created something so hideous.”

Kael'thas’ ears twitched uncomfortably as he absorbed this information. Ploughs - ploughs that had clearly been designed to mow straight through the living as though they were grain in an open field. The very image sent gooseflesh racing along his arms and back, though once again be fought the urge to tremble openly.

“Netali tells us you were forced to retreat,” he said after a moment. “You were spotted, then?”

At that, Kelarin let out a sudden wail and huddled in on himself, shaking hard and dropping his piece of bread to clutch instead at his scalp. Mal'areth drew the younger man close and murmured urgently to him as the rest of the camp recoiled, but it seemed nothing he said could break through whatever panic had overcome the younger elf, and soon Kelarin broke down into open, wracking sobs.

“Take him,” Mal'areth plead, looking up to address those nearest to him. “He needs rest - please…”

Two of the onlookers broke from the crowd after a moment's hesitation, though they approached the scouts with great caution and only laid hands on Kelarin when it became clear that the younger man would not willingly leave Mal'areth's side.

Kelarin shrieked and fought as he was pulled to his feet - and then dropped limply into the arms of the larger of the two who took him, succumbing to a sudden burst of kerdaurgy that appeared to render him completely senseless. Only then did Kael'thas see the damage to the young scout’s armor, and the fresh, bloody bandages beneath it. It seemed someone - or some _thing_ \- had taken a decent chunk of flesh from the young man's side.

“See that his injuries are treated and the dressings replaced,” Kael'thas ordered. “Quickly!”

Mal'areth looked on as his companion was carried away, heartbreak written plainly across his features. It wasn't until Valanar cleared his throat that the scout seemed to remember Kael'thas’ most recent query, and turned once more to address his prince.

“Kelarin ventured into the scar,” Mal'areth said slowly. When this elicited a third, much louder outcry from the rest of the camp, he added, “He wanted to get a closer look at the soil - he said something about seeing what kind of magic could kill the earth itself, and figuring out a way to counter it.

“But he was ambushed by…” Here Mal'areth faltered, visibly struggling to find the words to continue. His hands shifted aimlessly, as though he might catch the right words from thin air, but after another moment he finally said, “I… I don't even have a name for the creature. It was… _massive,_ my lord, far larger than any mortal man. Taller even than any mounted rider - Kelarin rode out on his hawkstrider and the thing dwarfed them _both._ It was… perhaps it was a golem?” He looked up at Kael'thas in dismay. “Perhaps a great many bodies, stitched together into a single creature? Only - only its gut was _open,_ Sire, like whoever had put it together had just… forgotten to stitch it shut. Its innards spilled out and the thing didn't so much as _flinch_.”

“How did such an abomination _ambush_ Kelarin?” Kael'thas wondered. “Surely it made some sound as it approached, even if it came from behind…?”

“It didn't draw close,” Mal'areth answered grimly. “It didn't need to. The thing carried a throwing axe the size of my head, attached to a chain several yards in length. It caught Kelarin's hawk by a wing and dragged them both to it before we realized it was there.”

“The hawkstrider didn't survive, I take it,” Kael'thas commented.

“It died… gruesomely,” Mal'areth confirmed. “As Kelarin said: ripped to pieces, even long after it stopped screaming.”

Kael'thas closed his eyes and focused for a moment on the deep, careful breaths he drew through his nose. If the others around him retched or made any other sounds of distress, he ignored them well enough that they did not worsen his own revulsion.

“And Kelarin was injured in its defense?” Kael'thas asked once he was sure he would not gag mid-speach.

“Yes and no,” Mal'areth answered. “The… creature - the abomination - it had three arms. Two it used to kill the hawk; the third, the one rooted in a spot behind its head and shoulders, that one caught and held Kelarin by the arm when he was launched from the saddle. The thing tried to _eat_ him,” he added, growing pale with the memory. “And it _spoke,_ sir. It was _aware._ It…”

Mal'areth broke off and shuddered, and for a moment Kael'thas feared the man might vomit. Many of those still listening drew back again in uneasy anticipation, and several retreated from the circle entirely, visibly shaken as they fled to the safety of their tents.

“…It spoke like… like a young child, sir,” Mal'areth finally choked out. “It called him… it said…”

He shook himself stubbornly.

“It called Kelarin a _snack,_ ” Mal'areth said.

Silence rang out across the camp, and somehow this was more deafening than the cries and heaving that had come before. Kael'thas forced himself to keep his gaze trained on Mal'areth; he could not look to the others, not when they were as freshly revulsed as Kael'thas himself. Mal'areth, at least, had had a little time already to harden himself against the things he had borne witness to today. Just at the moment, his stony resolution was the only life raft Kael'thas could find amidst the tide of horror this new information had unleashed upon the camp.

“Was he bitten?” someone called out. Kael'thas refused to look for the speaker, though he thought he recognized the voice as belonging to Keleseth.

Mal'areth hesitated, but the look on his face spoke the answer as clearly as though he had shouted it out loud.

“Mal'areth,” Kael'thas said, and now at last he _did_ allow some tenderness to enter his tone. “You know they will uncover it themselves. Even now they are removing his gear and unwrapping the bandages from about his body. They will see it soon enough, if they haven't already.”

He sent a careful wave of soothing magic out towards the other man as he spoke, weaving kerdaurgy into his every word so that it fell in gentle waves against Mal'areth. The man resisted only briefly; then the charm took hold, and he visibly relaxed under its influence… though Kael'thas saw the sorrow did not leave his eyes.

“…Yes,” Mal'areth finally whispered. His gaze fell to his own hands, and connected as he was by his charm spell Kael'thas felt the bitter sting of betrayal that washed through the man as clearly as though it were his own. This was a secret Mal'areth had never meant to share.

“What happened?” Kael'thas prodded after another long, uncomfortable silence.

“The abomination - it tried to eat him,” Mal'areth said again. He still would not lift his gaze to Kael'thas. “It caught him when he was thrown, and when he kicked out at it, the thing lunged forward… and took a chunk out of his side with its teeth.”

“How did Kelarin escape?” Kael'thas asked.

Mal'areth shook his head, looking suddenly much older and more weary than he had before.

“He didn't,” Mal'areth answered. “By then I was close enough to fire off a frostbolt at the thing’s arm. When it dropped him, I grabbed Kelarin and dragged him away.” He closed his eyes and added, “I think… I think perhaps the thing was too startled to watch what direction I took off in. I heard it bellowing, but nothing ever came after us.

“I carried Kelarin until I found a sheltered place where I could tend to his injuries,” he added. Now at last he met Kael'thas’ gaze again, openly pleading in his tone and expression as he said, “I… I don't know how or why Kelarin didn't bleed to death. But - he _was_ bleeding, Your Highness. He's still bleeding now - you saw the bandages, you must have seen them. The dead don't bleed that color.”

“He was bitten by an undead abomination the likes of which none of us had encountered previously.” That was Valanar, who stepped forward into Kael'thas’ line of sight as he continued, “And he was then dropped onto the ground within a swath of land _you yourselves_ have both said is so diseased that it actively kills any living thing that tries to cross it.”

“But he is still _bleeding!_ ” Mal'areth insisted, jolting to his feet in sudden anger. Kael'thas winced as his charm spell fell apart under the rapid shift in the other man's mood.

“And the bleeding hasn't stopped, has it?” Valanar countered mercilessly.

Mal'areth didn't answer, though he stared so furiously at Valanar that Kael'thas quietly signaled for the nearest magi to ready themselves.

_“Has it?”_ Valanar demanded again, stepping forward again.

Mal'areth shrieked and flung himself at Valanar, only to be sent flying to the side by a well-timed burst of magic that struck just before he reached the other man. Mal'areth hit the ground and went tumbling several feet; Valanar turned and had one hand at his sword in the two seconds that it took for Kael'thas to step between them.

“Enough!” Kael'thas snapped. This time he was not so gentle as he unleashed a second, much larger charm that struck everyone within several yards of his position. More than a few of those affected staggered under the onslaught, and Valanar and Mal'areth were both driven to their knees outright.

Everyone went perfectly still. Even Kael'thas himself did not dare draw breath, and for a long, awful moment, the only sound to be heard was the wind passing softly through the trees around them.

“We will not execute any man without reason,” Kael'thas declared. “We do not know enough about the creature that attacked Kelarin. We do not know enough about the place where he was attacked. I will not risk slaughtering a man whose only crime was his own survival,” he insisted, turning to look Valanar squarely in the eye until the other man looked away in submission.

“But neither will I risk allowing undeath to take root among us,” Kael'thas continued, turning his gaze on Mal'areth. “Kelarin will be kept under careful guard and monitored. If he should make a full recovery, then I will consider him untouched by this plague of undeath.”

“And if he does not?” Valanar asked. “Or if he should begin to show the signs of turning even as he recovers?”

Mal'areth's gaze was desperate to the point of blind panic. Kael'thas forced himself to meet it evenly.

“Then I will do what must be done,” Kael'thas answered, “as I have for every step thus far.”

Something heavy rippled through the crowd. Mal'areth sagged with a low moan and did not rise again, even when Kael'thas at last withdrew his charm.

“Take him to his tent,” Kael'thas ordered, beckoning to a pair of Phoenix Guard. “He cannot be allowed near Kelarin until a decision has been made, and I will not ask him to master himself and stay away under his own volition.”

Mal'areth did not struggle as the guardsmen helped him up and lead him away. With his exit, the rest of the gathering finally broke up, and once again a flurry of uneasy muttering and whispering simmered through the party.

Valanar and Netali both stepped forward, only to stop at a wave of Kael'thas’ hand. Without another word, the crown prince made his way to his own tent, retreating at last to what privacy it could offer him so that he might weep without arousing the dismay of those around him.

They burned Kelarin’s remains three days later. His execution had been swift and painless, ending him before the sickly blue-black poison spiderwebbing through the skin of his chest and stomach could do more than shorten his breath and rob him of his memory of the last several days.

Kael'thas had been the one to carry out his execution. He doubted the younger man had even realized what was happening.

(A mercy killing, Valanar had later called it. Kael'thas had flung fire and cruel words after the man in response, and they had not spoken since.)

Mal'areth became nonverbal and utterly unresponsive following the execution, and on the fourth day, only a few hours after Kelarin's pyre had at last stopped smoldering, his body was discovered near the creek where they had drawn their water. His dagger was still embedded in his breast; his eyes stared sorrowfully at the skies above, and his dying tears still lay damp upon his cheeks.

It was only as they prepared his body for the pyre that a letter was uncovered, written in Kelarin's hand and laying bare a bond between the men that had far surpassed simple camaraderie.

Kael'thas had seen enough. The next morning he ordered the camp packed up and his remaining followers readied, and fairly tore open a second portal into Silvermoon to usher his people through at last to the one certain place of safety left in this Lightforsaken hell that had once been their gentle homeland.

Valanar was the last to venture through the portal. He stopped only for a moment, gazing heavily at Kael'thas as though he were just about to offer some word of comfort or reassurance.

Kael'thas shook his head and did not bother to hide the heartbreak from his face this time. He could not bear whatever Valanar might say to him. He had no more strength to try.

Valanar closed his eyes and stepped through without a sound, and for a moment Kael'thas was left alone.

The forest - or at least, what shadows still remained of it - loomed dark and silent all around him, void now of any life or color at all besides his own. No birdsong split the air; no hum or effervescent chime of pure arcana shifting endlessly upon itself remained now to lift the emptiness away from him, as it had always done before.

The mournful wind shifted, blowing towards him now from the south, beyond the still-smoldering pyre where Mal'areth's ashes still lay faintly glowing in the falling light. Smoke and cinder traveled on that wind, dancing past him on either side - all save one black speck, that landed hot against his hand and stained his skin as though in silent accusation.

The last of the ruling house of Sunstrider turned and retreated through the portal, and when it closed the forest was left hollow once again.

**Author's Note:**

> To make up for the sad I'll write happy fics for Mal'areth and Kelarin after this.


End file.
